squinting at the cans, bottles and bags lined up on the shelves, as if he was trying to memorize all the labels. After about ten minutes I said, “What are you looking for, anyway?”
“Oh, soup, stew, like that,” he said vaguely.
“Is there something you want me to get, maybe save some time?”
He was dropping cans with big coloured pictures of stew on the labels into the cart. “No, it’s okay. I think of things I need as I go along. Why don’t you waitoutside in the van? I won’t be long.”
He seemed anxious to do his shopping without me around, so I figured fine, he wants to be alone, that’s okay with me. He came out about half an hour later, weighed down by shopping bags, just as I was ready to die from boredom.
After a quick stop at the beer store, which he found easily enough, we were on the road again, rumbling past the slag heaps and the pinkish granite rocks that stretched away from the highway toward the big chimney that dominates the city.
Once out of Sudbury we were heading into the afternoon sun. We drove for over an hour, through towns with fascinating names like Whitefish, Massey and Spanish, before the old man took a right onto a secondary road. Not far along he turned into another campground, this one called Chutes Provincial Park. I knew from my four years of totally boring French classes that a
chute
is a waterfall, so I figured this might be a pretty spot. Sure enough, as soon as the old man pulled into a campsite and the rumble of the broken muffler died away, I could hear the falls.
I got out, stretched the kinks out of my back and followed a path through a stand of evergreens toward the distant roar, waving the bugs away as I walked. The path opened onto a small sand beach on a tiny lake—more like a pond—of slow-moving dark water flecked with foam. The shore opposite was lit up by the afternoon sun. At the far end of the pond was a small waterfall gushing over a rock shelf. At the nearer end the pond narrowed into a small river that rushed away into the bush.
I went back to the van and put on my bathing suit. The old man was brewing up some coffee on the stove, puffing on his pipe, filling the van with foul-smelling smoke, and humming to himself. I headed for the pond.
Under my feet the path was cool and damp, covered with pine needles that made walking soft and silent. I waded into the pond carefully because the water on this side was shaded and dark, making it hard to see the bottom. I pushed off, gasping as the cold water enveloped me, and swam toward the falls. The current was surprisingly strong, but not threatening. The sun on the foaming water of the falls turned it milk-white as it thundered into the pool. I swam against the current and pulled myself up to lie on a flat rock next to the falls. The sun against my back felt good. There’s something about water and sun that usually opens a tap and drains all the tension out of me. Not this time, though.
My mind returned to my old man. I already dreaded sitting around with him during and after supper with nothing to do except read my book. Then after dark, what? Go to bed at nine o’clock and lie there staring at the ceiling like last night?
Maybe I’d ask him about himself. But now I wasn’t sure I felt like going into all that. He’d start digging up the past, and I wanted to do anything but. Why open it all up again? It was over.
Except I wasn’t doing a very good job of forgetting.
I gingerly lowered myself into the cold water. As I struck out I noticed the old man on the far shore, turning and taking the path back to the campsite. He had been watching me.
We had supper in silence, mostly because I brought my novel to the table and read while I ate so I wouldn’t have to make lame conversation. The meal was stew mixed with pork and beans. I hated to admit it, but the stuff didn’t taste too bad. After we had eaten, the old man chopped up some firewood while I did the dishes. He said it was a nice night for
“Oh, soup, stew, like that,” he said vaguely.
“Is there something you want me to get, maybe save some time?”
He was dropping cans with big coloured pictures of stew on the labels into the cart. “No, it’s okay. I think of things I need as I go along. Why don’t you waitoutside in the van? I won’t be long.”
He seemed anxious to do his shopping without me around, so I figured fine, he wants to be alone, that’s okay with me. He came out about half an hour later, weighed down by shopping bags, just as I was ready to die from boredom.
After a quick stop at the beer store, which he found easily enough, we were on the road again, rumbling past the slag heaps and the pinkish granite rocks that stretched away from the highway toward the big chimney that dominates the city.
Once out of Sudbury we were heading into the afternoon sun. We drove for over an hour, through towns with fascinating names like Whitefish, Massey and Spanish, before the old man took a right onto a secondary road. Not far along he turned into another campground, this one called Chutes Provincial Park. I knew from my four years of totally boring French classes that a
chute
is a waterfall, so I figured this might be a pretty spot. Sure enough, as soon as the old man pulled into a campsite and the rumble of the broken muffler died away, I could hear the falls.
I got out, stretched the kinks out of my back and followed a path through a stand of evergreens toward the distant roar, waving the bugs away as I walked. The path opened onto a small sand beach on a tiny lake—more like a pond—of slow-moving dark water flecked with foam. The shore opposite was lit up by the afternoon sun. At the far end of the pond was a small waterfall gushing over a rock shelf. At the nearer end the pond narrowed into a small river that rushed away into the bush.
I went back to the van and put on my bathing suit. The old man was brewing up some coffee on the stove, puffing on his pipe, filling the van with foul-smelling smoke, and humming to himself. I headed for the pond.
Under my feet the path was cool and damp, covered with pine needles that made walking soft and silent. I waded into the pond carefully because the water on this side was shaded and dark, making it hard to see the bottom. I pushed off, gasping as the cold water enveloped me, and swam toward the falls. The current was surprisingly strong, but not threatening. The sun on the foaming water of the falls turned it milk-white as it thundered into the pool. I swam against the current and pulled myself up to lie on a flat rock next to the falls. The sun against my back felt good. There’s something about water and sun that usually opens a tap and drains all the tension out of me. Not this time, though.
My mind returned to my old man. I already dreaded sitting around with him during and after supper with nothing to do except read my book. Then after dark, what? Go to bed at nine o’clock and lie there staring at the ceiling like last night?
Maybe I’d ask him about himself. But now I wasn’t sure I felt like going into all that. He’d start digging up the past, and I wanted to do anything but. Why open it all up again? It was over.
Except I wasn’t doing a very good job of forgetting.
I gingerly lowered myself into the cold water. As I struck out I noticed the old man on the far shore, turning and taking the path back to the campsite. He had been watching me.
We had supper in silence, mostly because I brought my novel to the table and read while I ate so I wouldn’t have to make lame conversation. The meal was stew mixed with pork and beans. I hated to admit it, but the stuff didn’t taste too bad. After we had eaten, the old man chopped up some firewood while I did the dishes. He said it was a nice night for
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